


Worth A Night, Worth A Lifetime

by TreacherousGnome



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Episode Tag, How Do I Tag, How people change, M/M, Mostly Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:10:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreacherousGnome/pseuds/TreacherousGnome
Summary: Some love takes time. Its nature is never certain - it changes as often as people do, and it only grows as it does. It guides the lives of those around it. It remains a constant presence as a person grows and changes in every other way.Other love comes all at once, silent until it is deafening.





	

            Even as a child, Victor Nikiforov was already fated to be a star.

            He didn’t have much to give yet, except time and energy, but everything he could sacrifice, he did so with pride. His days were already filled with ice skating rehearsals, with training and discipline, as he prepared to take the world by storm like he was meant to.

            Nations away, Yuuri Katsuki took lessons some afternoons at the local ice rink. He was just several years younger than Victor when he first learned about his existence, on a small, faded TV in the Ice Castle’s back room.

            Yuuko-san asked to show him the videos, and when she smiled at him and scrunched her eyes in excitement, he never wanted to tell her no. He hadn’t skated long, and still didn’t think of it as much more than an after-school hobby, but as he watched the clips of the silver-haired boy glide and leap around the ice like he was made of silk, Yuuri realized how much _more_ skating could be.

            Victor made it into an art.

* * *

 

            By the time he was 14, skating commanded every hour of Victor’s day. When he wasn’t traveling with Coach Yakov, it was photoshoots, practices, interviews, diets, and he beamed through all of it. His already-impressive collection of awards grew ever higher as he took home gold yet again in his last Junior Competition before competing as an adult. He was on top of the world, and was only starting to understand how infinite his potential was.

            Yuuri went to the rink whenever he could. He studied footage of every Grand Prix from the past twenty years, as well as each skater, past and present, who’d fought their way to get there.

            But none of them _ever_ shone as bright as Victor Nikiforov.  Every week, Yuuri went to the sporting goods shop with his allowance, and left with some mention of him. He had every poster, read every magazine interview, bought anything he could afford, and before long, Victor covered his bedroom walls.

            His conversations with Yuko-san became less back-and-forth and more of her excited surprise as he gushed on about Victor’s latest record, or just how many Lutz’s he pulled off last year at the Grand Prix. Usually he tried to restrain himself, especially when Takeshi would start complaining, but it was hard for him to find anything else as incredible to talk about.

            Victor was art.

* * *

 

            Before Victor had turned 20, he was competing against men more than five years his senior, and shattering their scores each time he did. He had world records, millions of adoring fans, not to mention countries of people who knew his name. Things hadn’t gotten any easier, contrarily it was the hardest he’d ever worked, and he ached and bruised at the end of most days, but it was all worth it. Skating was all he had ever known, all he would ever need, and even if Being Victor Nikiforov was a 24-7 job, it was the best one anybody had ever had.

            Yuuri had yet to leave his home town of Hatsetsu, but it didn’t stop him from getting on the ice every day. He’d joined the figure skating club the second he was able to, and he’d won most of the local and regional competitions he’d entered. Now that he could pull off some of the tricks and jumps he adored so much, his admiration of the world famous pros reached entirely new levels of respect, at how simple they made their near-impossible movements appear

            But it was also around the time he realized that his love of the ice and his love of its biggest star, now the most successful of all time, much to Yuuri’s delight, were not one in the same. Not even close.

            Victor was a deity when he skated, and Yuuri readily worshiped at his altar, that was nothing new, but he took more and more notice of Victor off the ice. He noticed the ethereal grace he walked with as he strode down red carpets. When he would turn to the camera with a wink and a smirk, Yuuri’s pulse would quicken and his cheeks would flush. He rewatched routines where Victor’s costumes were skin-tight, and it was no longer about learning the jumps.

            Yuuri had never had any experience with love, always a little too shy to put himself out there, so when he’d gaze upon photos of Victor shirtless at the beach, or forming hearts with his fingers after a competition, the emotion he felt was completely new, but it was undeniable.

            Victor was beauty itself.

* * *

 

            Victor was 24 the first time he realized he was bored. Conceptually, he knew he had very little reason to be; his days and nights were still a never-ending parade of adventure and celebration and of course hard work, so it wasn’t like he had idle time _to_ be bored. Maybe that wasn’t the right word.

            He realized he was no longer excited.

            The ice was still the closest thing to a home he had, but he’d realized long ago that the best thing about Being Victor Nikiforov, even better than skating, was surprising people. It used to be so easy - everything he did was unbelievable in the eyes of the world. But once he had proved himself as a legend, everything he did was simply… legendary. It wasn’t shocking that he had broken another world record; he’d already broken five others. Yes, his latest routine moved entire _nations_ to tears; they _all_ did that.

            Not that he was ungrateful, though. The crowds still roared, people still sang praises both to and about him, and he appreciated each and every one of them. But some days it was nothing more than sound.

            Yuuri lived in Detroit, where he’d been for several years. He woke up determined every morning, and didn’t let himself relax until he went to bed. He competed internationally now, the way he’d dreamed of doing all his life. It wasn’t as glamorous as he sometimes thought it might be; months of ruthless practice didn’t pay off as much when every other skater was working just as hard.

            But he didn’t let it get to him. That wasn’t what Victor would do.

            Now that Yuuri was actually known (he wouldn’t say famous - not yet), he showed his admiration for his idol in different ways. Gone were his days of copying Victor’s routines or techniques, though he was finally able to land the majority of them in practice, now Yuuri saw him as a standard to live up to. He’d gotten a later start than the Russian man, not everyone could be a child prodigy after all, but one day he would win gold after gold if he kept working hard. Victor’s success and abilities were something Yuuri could attain too, and the man’s mere existence reminded Yuuri of thought every day. One day, if he stayed as focused, pushed himself as hard, he wouldn’t have to feel the devastating blow of defeat that constantly threatened to keep him down.

            Victor was everything Yuuri wanted to be.

* * *

 

            When he was 27, Victor won his 5th consecutive gold at the Grand Prix Final. Yet, after the fact, when he was back off ice and the crowds were gone, he was lost, the sort of lingering distance the ice barely helped him run from anymore.

            “About your free performance…” He spoke to his rinkmate and current Junior Division Champion Yuri Plisetski afterwards, he usually did if he was around, but Yuri was still too young to understand how worn-out Victor felt most days.

            It was met with a frigid sneer. “I won, so who cares?”

            Victor tried hard to not let it get to him, and tried harder to not let it show on his face.

            On a rational level, he knew it wasn’t personal; Yuri snapped at just about everyone, and it wasn’t like Victor was a coach - there was no official obligation to listen to him. Yet it still stung, and he turned away ever so slightly to hide the frown he couldn’t stop. On ice, he was beloved, revered even. Off-ice he was... He didn’t know anymore. Maybe he never really had.

            Victor felt he was being watched, and glanced across the atrium to lock eyes with a competitor he hadn’t seen before the Final, a quiet Japanese boy. He didn’t seem to socialize much, but his name, Victor believed, was also Yuri.

            “Hey, you want a commemorative photo?” he offered, smiling. It wouldn’t be terrible to feel admired for a little while, and it was sad to him that maybe-Yuri only had his coach for company after what was probably the biggest tournament of his life.

            But all he did was turn and slink away, leaving Victor feeling more alienated than ever.

            As Yuuri walked towards the door, part of him wanted to turn back and beg, because of _course_ he wanted a photo, he wanted the ground Victor Nikiforov walked on, but easily resisted. He didn’t talk to him, how _could_ he talk to him? He hadn’t earned the right. Victor had asked him for a photo, as if he was nothing more than a fan. Hell, maybe he thought he _was_ ; his performance had been abysmal.

            Yuuri, after so many years, had made it to the Grand Prix Final, the best of the best, six of the top figure skaters on the whole planet, only to come in dead last. He’d gotten some of the worst scores of his career, and was almost glad his family wasn’t able to make it, so he’d have to deal with letting them down in person. It was bad enough that they’d watched on TV.

            He also couldn’t shake the feeling that his first shot at greatness may have the only one he got. Getting older was the worst inevitability in the world of figure skating, so Yuuri had known that at twenty-three, he may not have another chance to prove that he deserved to be there. He hadn’t proved it in the eyes of the world, he certainly hadn’t proved it in the eyes of himself, and he hadn’t proved it in the stunning, perfect eyes of Victor Nikiforov.

            Now he probably never would.

            Victor was a reminder of his failures.

* * *

 

            That night, Yuuri got dragged to the annual Grand Prix banquet, a formal gathering of the skaters and “industry professionals” thrown to honor everyone who had made the season a success. He knew he’d done no such thing, of course, but it was pretty much mandatory, so he spent the night off to the side of the room, still unable to shake the disgrace that came with today’s defeat. People he barely knew talked and chattered with people he didn’t care about, and he couldn’t work up the nerve to include himself, even if he’d wanted to, which he absolutely did not.

            The crushing loss wouldn’t leave his mind, and it was too easy to imagine the looks and scoffs of anyone he tried to make conversation with, knowing they’d seen his performance too. The old suit he wore as everyone else dressed to the nines only furthered the belief that he did not belong there. Yuuri was alone and isolated in a world he was not made for, and the only remedy in sight, the banquet’s complimentary champagne bar, became his best friend for the next several hours. There was nothing notable he recalled doing after that, and when he thought back on the evening, he remembered it as one of the most depressing nights of his life.

            Victor, though sober, was having an equally miserable night. The banquets seemed to get stuffier every year, and aside from the small group of friends, rinkmates, and Yakov who were always around, there was no one particularly interesting to talk to.

            The most exciting part of the night was the trainwreck-in-progress that was Yuri, or Yuuri, as Victor had learned his name was. He’d stayed in the corner quietly until around his tenth champagne, when he approached them, or more specifically Yuri Plisetski, slurring in a surprisingly pleasant tenor about some argument they’d had earlier. Mila had been about to step in, but before anyone could actually figure out what they were fighting about, they were up and across from each other, and… dancing. Yuuri had gotten wasted and challenged a teenager to a dance-off. And, despite coming in dead-last in the Prix, he appeared to be winning.

            Of course, Victor had been trained in more… high-brow forms of dance than the two were currently battling with, and he’d always found aggressive breakdance-styles to be relatively unimpressive, but this was something entirely new. Yuuri’s movements were unpredictable and erratic, yes, but his spins were something of majesty, and he never lost his balance once, even if he seemed hardly able to stand. He moved like a dream, turning and leaping across the dance floor like it was his to command, graceful and fearsome all at once.

            Yuuri made it into art.

            By the time of his rinkmate’s inevitable defeat, Victor was no longer content with snapping up pictures and laughing from the sidelines, and had already decided to step up as the next challenger with a deadly smirk. He may not have been able to breakdance, but he decided it was time to put his years of formal ballroom training to the test. Yuuri deserved to see some beauty in motion tonight too.

            They began by exchanging looks of intimidation, standing their ground several feet apart, but that would quickly change as Victor made his coy approach.

            Yet, Yuuri effortlessly matched his every step and turn, and though he tried to keep the competitive mood going, it was proving difficult when the boy had his hands on Victor’s hips and a laugh that rang out like music. At some point, Victor realized he was laughing just as loud. People were watching, even staring, at this point, but as Yuuri twirled and dipped him across the floor, all pretense of competition gone now, the crowd never even crossed Victor’s mind.

            Yuuri was art.

            It ended all too soon, of course, and Yuuri was back to the champagne before he could think of anything charming to say to the bizarre, incredible man who’d taken his breath away, the first time anyone had ever done so. Victor took some time for himself, trying to regain his composure, to process the high that was still coursing through his senses, but it never happened.

            A commotion from the crowd jerked him out of it. Yuuri, who had already shed his jacket and tie by the time the dance-off began, was now almost completely naked and wrapped around one of the room’s support poles. Victor, though briefly worried about the man’s safety, was there in seconds, not about to miss the show of a lifetime.

            He flung his body around the pole with the ease of someone who’d done it for years, and glided with such fluid movements that it was easy to forget there was no music behind him. His pants had come off long before now, so one could see every inch of his thighs as he grinded against the steel between them, fully aware of how intoxicating he was. Once he started throwing occasional glances over at Victor while dancing, behind flushed hooded eyelids, it only confirmed what he’d been unable to get off his mind.

            Yuuri was beauty itself.

            He wasn’t alone on the pole though, and the next time Victor looked up, the eyes he met were not the dark honey he was expecting, but gold. Christophe, his friend and long-time rival, was wrapped around the pole underneath Yuuri, nearly horizontal, with the latter unabashedly using Chris’ ass as a platform for his dance. He responded to Victor’s raised eyebrows with a "why not?" shrug, continuing his steamy endeavor. Victor tried and quickly failed not to get jealous.

            Yuuri just seemed to feel like he was flying, and it made it impossible to look anywhere else. He laughed and drank without a care - inspired by the crowd of stunned onlookers instead of backing away from them. The way he moved was completely unhinged, and he looked happier, even after coming in last place that day, than the Russian man had been winning his last five gold medals.

            Yuuri was everything Victor wanted to be.

            This time he would say something to him, something witty and charming that would be sure to leave an impression. He was… _Victor Nikiforov_. That was sure to be enough, or mean something at least… wasn’t it?

            The show had ended while he was lost in thought, and Yuuri had left the pole behind before Victor could tell him anything. All of a sudden, he felt lost again, the way he’d been running from all night, unable to shake the fear that for all that he’d done and accomplished, it hadn’t been enough.

 

            He’d had about sixteen glasses of champagne before he was almost too drunk to stand, and somehow through the blur of the evening, wound up clinging tightly to a bewildered Victor, who wasn’t about to complain. Yuuri’s skin was warm against his palms as he held him up, and he was sleepily mumbling about something Victor caught only half of in the sweetest voice he’d ever heard. At this point, he knew it was too late to say something memorable - he wasn’t even sure Yuuri _would_ remember this. All he could do was listen as Yuuri proposed, heavily slurring, that Victor… coach him? The words were so strung-together that he wasn’t sure they were in English, but he nodded idly at whatever the boy had to say.

            Victor had never known that so much beauty, so many kinds of beauty, could exist in one person. Yuuri and his bright laughter were so unlike the ice he’d known all his life, and he’d spent so many years being shown around like a prize that coaching might be the change he’d needed… He couldn’t believe he was actually considering this.

            Then Yuuri’s voice became focused, centered, and he looked up at Victor with big earnest eyes.

            And he begged him again to be his coach before beaming wildly, leaping into his arms.

            Victor had never seen so much excitement and love and _life_ in someone before. As Yuuri laughed in his arms, oblivious to his racing thoughts, he held the drunken boy up and couldn’t imagine letting him go.

            Yuuri was everything he ever wanted.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The style of this one was a bit experimental this time, so I hope it worked! If not, or if so let me know, either on here or at treacherousgnome.tumblr.com (or my art/writing blog if I ever start using it...) Thanks for reading :D


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